Equivocate
by Zyvira
Summary: v. to use ambiguous or unclear expressions, usually to avoid commitment or in order to mislead. / Nothing intrigued him like a good mystery, and the girl who eventually moved into 221C was definitely one, much like the suicides he was trying to make a case out of. Bored! / She had been a respected member of the Magical Law Enforcement now demoted to babysitting a man-child. / WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**AN.** Welcome to my newest obsession. I would like to apologise now for any incorrect information and unrealistic characterisation. I am an amateur in the Sherlock fandom. I am also neither a police officer nor a pathologist, nor do I know what dead bodies are like; I don't particularly want people to question my browsing history. You may correct me with proper facts and where I have made grammatical errors - I enjoy learning, even if it is a bit morbid.

I do not own anything except for the plot. All recognisable characters do not belong to me.

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Chapter One

There was a body on the ground.

Clear sea-green eyes crinkling slightly at the sight, Sherlock Holmes paused on his casual evening stroll. It was almost midnight, and the night was quiet. A few blocks down the street, he could hear drunken singing as a rowdy bunch exited a pub, fading as they headed away from his direction. Perhaps this man on the ground was one of them, knocked out by drink and unable to crawl to the nearest main road to hail himself a cab home.

Sherlock huffed slightly as he made his way over to the man. He was no civil servant, it was not his duty to be picking up drunks off the ground, but it was just so unsightly to have a body sprawled chest-down in the middle of the street. He may be devoid of most human sentiment, but he was not completely careless.

Stepping closer, Sherlock's keen eyes noted the blood immediately. His study of the body changed from casual disdain to calculatingly intrigued. It was a small pool of blood, mostly from the head: pushed or jumped? Angle of the legs suggested the man had fallen front first. Sherlock looked up to study the buildings around him—it could only have been from the top of that office. Only three storeys, not high enough to cause a huge pool of blood upon impact.

Frowning slightly, Sherlock knelt beside the body and reached a hand to feel for a pulse. He shouldn't have died upon impact, not unless he'd fallen head first and broke his spine. Definitely no pulse, but the body was still warm. Recent fall, then. Careful hands pushed aside the curly dark hair, and Sherlock studied the man's face. Light stubble, slightly haggard face, blood glistening and wet on the side of the face that had hit the ground. The man had been stressed prior to his death: staying up late or frightened of something?

The collar of the man's coat was also damp with blood, and Sherlock's further study of the body found the man to be wearing what seemed to be robes. It was an odd choice of clothes—perhaps he worked at the court? It was a fair distance from where the body had ended up. As Sherlock moved slightly to study the legs and shoes of the man (black slacks, expensive Italian shoes), the glint of something caught his eye. Attention distracted, his eyes alighted upon the gold watch peeking out of the man's left sleeve. Sherlock's head tilted slightly as he reached a hand to examine the watch for some clues—

"Step away from the body."

Sherlock froze and looked up at the owner of the voice, his mind already running through a list of reasons for his hovering over a body on the ground. There were two of them, he saw now, both dressed in crisp white shirts and heavy cloaks, their breath misting slightly in the freezing air. One was older, deep frown lines on his face showing he was a man used to giving orders. The other just behind him was younger, but held the same hard look in his eyes; these men were used to conflict. Neither were dressed as police, but their manner spoke of law enforcement or authority of some sort.

He could work with that.

Standing up as gracefully as he could while keeping a look of grave professionalism on his face, Sherlock stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat as he faux-respectfully nodded at the visitors. "Gentlemen," he stated, pulling out the badge he'd nicked from Lestrade the other day and advertising it in front of him, "it would seem we have—"

The older man stepped forward in a threatening manner, but Sherlock was unfazed. He was used to senior members of authority believing he could be easily intimidated. Setting his jaw a little as he stared back, he held his place by the dead man and didn't budge, his eyes quickly working on deducing the man in front of him.

In the few seconds of silence that followed, Sherlock had just deduced that the older man was married with no children, no pets, did not tolerate animals, was impatient, immaculately clean, who believed everything had its rightful place, had no vices, and detested unclean habits when their battle of wills was interrupted.

"I said, _step away from the body_ ," the man repeated, his words harder and brooking no argument. The man did not even deign to look at the badge Sherlock had held up. "We will handle this situation and your assistance is not required."

It was not like Anderson telling Sherlock to butt out of his crime scene, desperate to solve the case himself for glory and credit. The way this man presented himself and his partner, almost melting out of the darkness with no sound of footsteps nor announcement of his position of authority, made Sherlock suspicious of their motives. He had noticed neither of the men were particularly surprised to see the body, nor were they in any state of worry or concern, not even bending to see if there was a chance the man on the ground was still alive.

It was as though they were expecting this, and they were not wanting to draw attention to it.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to retort when the younger man stepped up and said harshly, "Sir, you have been found with a bloodied body at your feet on a deserted street in the middle of the night with no witnesses. I suggest you step away before you are detained for questioning on the grounds of murder."

Instantly, Sherlock's face twisted slightly in disbelief. Surely these men didn't think _he'd_ done this? This could have been just an ordinary jumper, an overworked man who simply could not handle the pressure any more and took a swan-dive from a building. Why did these men conclude this was a murder case? Sherlock knew the dead man could have been pushed off the building—he was impatiently aware he did not yet have all the facts—but his suspicion of the two men in front of him was only further aroused by their actions.

"This will be treated as a crime scene if you continue to stand there," the younger man continued in an attempt to bait Sherlock. "You've already committed a crime by impersonating law enforcement—you don't really want to add a murder charge to that, do you?"

Sherlock was extremely tempted to push these men's buttons purely to irritate them, but the approaching flashes of red and blue lights that heralded the police's arrival stopped him from having his fun. His eyes flickered from the two men to the police car rolling in towards them, his face carefully blank. The younger man did have a point: Sherlock did not have any particular desire to have his time wasted by being detained and questioned over the dead body or the unauthorised use of a police man's badge.

Accepting defeat, he stuffed the badge in his pocket as he nodded at the men again slightly. "Gentlemen," he said lowly, his eyes committing their features to his memory so he could study them later. With another quick glance at the body and at his surroundings, Sherlock kept his hands in his pockets as he turned on his heel and walked away without looking back.

He would track down the body and study it later; it would turn up at the morgue for an autopsy to confirm if it was suicide or a murder, and Sherlock knew he could always access it. For now, though, his mind was racing on the subject of the two men.

He resolved to ask Lestrade about them—perhaps after he reverse pick-pocketed the Detective Inspector's badge—because he knew they were not ordinary law enforcement. For one, they did not act or dress like police; for two, he knew neither had called the police for backup nor to report the body. The street had been empty before he had approached the body, and he had not heard a voice until they had stood right before him. Nor had either of them placed a call during their encounter. There was no possibility in which that police car had found them unless it was by pure chance, the probability of which was very slim.

It was definitely a very odd situation, and nothing prodded at Sherlock's interest like a good mystery, for a good mystery it was. The dead man on the ground had had a clean face and clean hair, old money family perhaps, his gold watch obviously a well-taken care-of heirloom. Aside from his dark eyes that hinted at some sleepless nights, the man had lived a somewhat comfortable life. The dead man's clothes had also been clean, worn well and with pride, if a bit old. He had not been a thug, but Sherlock had seen the tip of what seemed to be a sizeable snake tattoo on the man's left wrist.

The dead man had not been an ordinary court staff, and the men who found them were not ordinary police men. _Oh yes_ , this was not a usual situation, and Sherlock was very much looking forward to unravel what seemed to be a very promising mystery.

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN.** And now we have the intro to the wizarding world. HP is definitely easier for me to write. I may be a bit rusty. Reviews and constructive criticism are much loved.

I do believe I forgot to mention the timeline: we are looking at somewhere in Season 1 for Sherlock (the Moriarty situation is at the moment not in the plans), and about 10 years after the Wizarding War. That would perhaps make Sherlock only a year or two older than Hermione.

I do thank my first reviewer - your support has been most appreciated :)

Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine; all recognizable characters are unfortunately not.

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"Adrian Pucey."

A manila folder flopped on to the desk, setting the loose edges of the surrounding papers to flutter. The resulting light breeze however wasn't effective in moving the brunette's heavy, curly hair, staying resolutely in place as though nothing had disturbed it. The teaspoon of muesli and milk paused on its journey to her mouth, her light brown eyebrows furrowing slightly as she gave a tiny glare at the black-haired man in front of her.

Over ten years later and Harry James Potter was still lacking in many things, one of which was tact.

Her best friend also had an impeccable sense of timing. Of course he would quite literally drop case photos ]right when she was starting to get comfortable with her breakfast. It was only a few minutes past six am and already he had taken it upon himself to ruin her day. Could she not have some peace and quiet while she geared up to tackle her workload? Working for the Magical Law Enforcement was not a trip to the park. She had hoped that Harry would understand, considering he was second-in-command of the Auror department, but obviously some things were more important than breakfast.

It was all fine for Harry, who seemed to survive off sheer willpower and energy. Hermione needed food to think—her standard breakfast muesli was her brain fuel, her coffee the spark that lit the fire of her intelligence. Without either, she would be grumpy and would not hesitate to use coarser language to make her point.

The serious look on Harry's face made her pause. He only ever had that look when there was a real dilemma.

Almost against her will, Hermione finished her spoonful of muesli before setting the bowl aside (hoping to be able to continue her meal after) to reach for the manila folder. Her long slender fingers opened the file as she mentally prepared herself for whatever she was about to see. She did not pay much attention to Harry as he ran both his hands through his hair before throwing himself on to the chair in front of her desk.

To be honest, the photos in the folder were not the worst she had seen. It still made her stomach gurgle unhappily at her, but it was not particularly gruesome. The pictures were of a man with slightly long, dark, curly hair, his eyelashes soft against the paleness of his skin. There was the shadow of stubble on his face, and it looked for all the world that he had simply fallen asleep on the ground. The blood was disconcerting, of course, slashing through what could have been a peaceful photo, dark red and harsh as it was: a sharp contrast. Distractedly, Hermione thought of Snow White.

"He was found on a deserted street in Muggle London," Harry muttered, now taking off his glasses as he massaged what was promising to be a major headache. At this information, Hermione's eyebrows furrowed some more as she turned photo after photo of Pucey's body. "Cause of death: blunt trauma. At least, that's what it's looking like. He definitely fell from a building, there was definitely a lot of blood and he had broken ribs. No poison in his system."

Hermione's stomach lurched at the last photo, one that she had not really been expecting. Most of the photos had been on the crime scene with the body in its original position; the last one had had the body turned up so the wrangled side of Pucey's face could be clearly seen. Swallowing convulsively, Hermione snapped the folder shut.

"Why is this case with you? Shouldn't this be with us?" she asked, both curious and rather wanting to change the topic. As far as she knew, Aurors usually dealt exclusively with Dark Wizards and the Dark Arts; Pucey's seemed to be a simple suicide, although it was definitely a little out of the ordinary. Sure, Pucey had come from a family of Voldemort sympathizers and had had the Dark Mark on his arm, but he had been acquitted of his crimes after the War.

Harry rubbed his face tiredly. "There are some... concerned parties who would like us to take the enquiry from a particular angle." In this Ministry, that meant bribery. In the wizarding world, that meant purebloods. If purebloods were concerned about a jumper, then it wasn't an ordinary jumper. "There are some concerns that there is something else involved. Something that requires Aurors."

Pursing her lips as she leaned back in her chair, Hermione studied the man seated in front of her. With Voldemort sympathizers, there was always the possibility of foul play—it wasn't as though the outcome of the War had been in their favour, even for those who had surrendered or changed sides before it ended. Heck, any deaths in their community could be treated as somewhat suspicious. Such was the result of civil war; there were always too many loose ends.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione's eyes returned to the closed folder. "Where's Pucey's body now?"

Harry's head twitched as though to displace an irksome fly. "There won't be a chance for an autopsy. It was already a lucky thing that the officers who were dispatched to the scene didn't touch the body before the photos were taken. At least some of the new procedures are sticking."

It was a hard sell with a Ministry and a world so self-ensconced and out of touch with science and modernity to have new laws introduced regarding the processes of crimes. With the wizarding community so reliant upon magic, they had grown lazy and believed magic was the cause of everything and could solve all their problems. Muggle scientific methods were unnecessary and rather cumbersome in the view of wizards: they didn't find the need to perform an autopsy on dead bodies, for one. Usually, magical duels would leave some sort of mark on the body, or a crime signature would be left on the scene, because either side would be more than glad to take credit for an opponent's death.

In this case, they wouldn't be able to ascertain if Pucey was just a jumper or if there had been 'something else' involved. There had been no Dark Mark floating in the sky above him, but that did not erase the possibility of a Voldemort fanatic taking their revenge on a traitor—Hermione had dealt with a few of those. It could very well be someone from the Light side, although if it was personal revenge, Hermione was not aware Pucey had ever attacked anyone before or during the war. Hermione had dealt with a few of those, too, witches and wizards who had lost a loved one to a Death Eater. Less so than the former, but she had worked in her department long enough for nothing to really surprise her any more.

Leaning forward now that she was getting into her research mode, Hermione rested her chin on her fingers as she placed her elbows on her desk. "What do _you_ think, Harry?" she urged. She was considered the brains of the Ministry, but Hermione trusted Harry's gut for the most part.

Bottle-green eyes met hers squarely. "I don't know," was the simple answer. Another sigh, before: "I would usually think it's just a suicide, but..."

Hermione waited a beat for Harry to continue. When it seemed that her best friend would not continue without a prompt, she cleared her throat and said, "But?"

Blinking, Harry refocused on the brunette witch behind the desk. "But Pucey wouldn't. What little I know of the man, he was content. Or as content as an ex-Death Eater can be. He'd truly reformed after the war; his sentence to the Muggle world to learn about their culture went smoothly, he'd caused no problems. He'd even completed a degree in Law, which is more than I can say for most of them. He'd divided his time equally between the Wizengamot and Muggle courts, he was a regular in the Muggle world. He'd had a successful career and seemed to enjoy it. He didn't exactly have a family, but he loved his job."

Like her. People may have thought her lonely, as she had very few friends and no real love interests, but Hermione lived for her work. She may feel the stress of her workload every now and then, but she would never consider suicide. From what Harry was saying, it did seem a bit improbable that Pucey had jumped of his own accord.

Improbable as though it may be, Hermione knew why her breakfast was being interrupted by this case. Accidental death or suicide needed to be either ruled out completely or confirmed in full. The 'concerned parties' would not accept anything less than absolute.

"Okay," she said finally, pulling out her wand to levitate her muesli bowl away. She wouldn't be able to eat it after all. "Tell me everything you know about Adrian Pucey."

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